green poets

Stats

Pastime  trenz pruca

Hometown  seattle, washington

job  photographer

interests  landscape, portrait, travel

Poem Titles

> Like no other

> The strange smell of Sunday morning

> The wall

Like no other

I have green eyes. 

Many women before me have had green eyes.

But these eyes are like no others.

My hair is curly and black

I am not the first or the last

With hair like mine

But I am like no other

My height, my weight

My accomplishments and titles I hold

Are nothing new to this world

But I am like no other

I am a mother

Nothing new

They come a dime a dozen

But I am a mother like no other

There is something in me you can’t find

In any other woman.

They will line up for you because

They are richer, more educated

Younger, prettier and sweeter.

They are abundant like trays of candy

In assorted flavors and colors

Yet, you will continue to look for me

In every other woman

You are hopeless

For I am like no other.

________________________________

The Strange Smell of Sunday Morning

What is this strange smell in my house?  I follow the flies to the dining room, I stop to see the bowl of beautiful guavas on my kitchen counter.  It’s been just one day since he and I walked through the beautiful promenade.  We walked by the ocean.  We walked through the farmer’s market.  I imagined what it would be like to hold his hand and rest my head in his chest.  What would it be like to be loved by him?  What would it be like to know that he would be there when I went to sleep and when I woke up?  Every week we would go to the farmer’s market and buy vegetables and fruits and talk about what we were having for dinner.  I would be at the apples table and he would come behind me with fresh flowers.  He looked at me as I imagined all this and we were just two friends not holding hands, not knowing what were having for dinner, walking through farmer’s market to get to the bank so we could have breakfast.  Just two friends.  We pass by a table and we both stop and walk toward the table with the guavas and pomegranates.  We are consumed by the fragrance of the guavas.  I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I’m thinking about the guavas my grandmother used to eat.  Then he says, “I love this smell, it reminds me of my childhood on the island.”  Finally a connection!  “Me too” I said.  How much? 4 for a dollar.  He bought 20 guavas for us to share and talked about how we love the smell of guavas.  That was comforting.  We get back to my place and he separates the guavas.  He has to leave.  We are not lovers from the same island.  He has his island, I have mine.  Goodbye.  The next morning there is an awful smell, almost like the armpits of a wet t-shirt.  How sweet things turn sour.  Some friends come over and grimace, “what is that awful smell”   They can’t possibly understand what those guavas meant to me yesterday.  I guess I will have to throw them out along with my island boy.

________________________________

The Wall

I love men but I deny them my essence

They can’t climb the wall

so they must love me from a distance

either he must have wings

or the strength to

tear down the wall

I have yet to see this man

Who will build my Taj Mahal

These men do nothing

But watch and sit around

I built this damn wall

Now they expect me

To tear it down?

____________________________________________________

I’m just a country girl

I’m just a country girl who wants to plant a seed

Wandering in the concrete jungle

Where nothing grows

Nothing gets planted

Where life is sold in plastic bottles

And we are at the mercy of a machine

That bears empty fruits

I long to touch the ground

To dig down deep

To plant my seed

To plant my roots

And drink the blood of the earth

To breathe in the breeze

And bathe in the sea

___________________________________________________

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